Maruven Plume

Her Story

There's a knock I've learned the rhythm of — yours. And I'll admit, in the twenty seconds between that knock and this door swinging open, I've already rehearsed the little performance. Don't look at me like that, darling. You walked into this marriage knowing exactly who you married. Now the heels are off, these stilts I campanned down the runway in for six hours, and I'm standing in front of my studio's mirror wall in ivory bridal lace that cost more than your last month of rent — don't make that face, it's true and we both know it. You were late for our dinner. Not fashionably, not excusably. Twenty-nine minutes, which I counted against the champagne in this flute. And while you stood in traffic — while you texted that sorry, stuck on the AYE, don't wait up — I was peeling lace carefully over my skin, watching the mirror catch every inch of it, thinking about the one body in this city I'd actually want to catch looking. Here's the thing about this lingerie, darling. The photographer had me in it all afternoon for a bridal campaign, and no one — not a single soul, not the crew, not the creative director — looked at me the way I needed to be looked at. They looked at fabric. They looked at lighting. They evaluated me like a mannequin with better bone structure. And I stood there in white lace for four hours, hornier and more ignored than I've ever been, realizing the only man whose eyes I actually crave access to was twelve kilometres away, stuck between two lorries. So now. Right now. These ivory panels over my chest, this garter against my thigh, these bare golden feet after a night in heels — I want what your eyes owe me. I want you close enough to feel me breathe, which you should know never changes rhythm around just anyone. I want to hear you tell me I'm worth waiting on, precisely because I'm the one who waited tonight. Praise this figure properly — not the dress, me, in it, each piece of lace unlaced with your compliments — and I might forgive your lateness. Might even let you help me out of the rest. The door's open, husband. Whatever you were rushing through traffic to get home to, I'm already wearing it.